


...And the Villain takes the Duchess Dancing

by deathtosanepeople



Category: The Librarians (TV 2014)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Character Study, DuchessVillain, Eviarty, F/M, First Kiss, because I refuse to accept that we're using eviarty over DuchessVillain which is far superior, lol I'm kidding use what you will, there's a lot of running and illegal stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-10 20:05:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5599123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathtosanepeople/pseuds/deathtosanepeople
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a mission to free himself from Propero's grasp, Moriarty enlists Eve's help to procure the items needed to free himself from his story. </p><p>Eve has the sinking suspicion that the mission isn't Moriarty's only motivation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to exspecialagentstarling for her help with the editing. I learned a lot from you and it has greatly improved my punctuation and grammar.
> 
> This story is set after S2EP5, And the Hollow Men. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

**INT. LIBRARY ANNEX — PORTLAND OREGON — 4:20 AM**  
  
Eve jerks awake for the third time tonight, face inches away from resting in her coffee. She groans, rubbing the back of her neck. God, how did she get stuck here with the paperwork while everyone else was out on a new case? Oh, right. Clever Cassandra.  
  
_“I just think you need to get some rest and be quiet for awhile, have some time to think. Since the Library is back online, and most of the artifacts are back safe and sound, there shouldn’t be much danger. It’s just a small mission, a few missing cows-“_  
  
_“It’s aliens this time I’m telling you!”_  
  
_“It’s not aliens, Jones! You heard Flynn, he says it’s never aliens!”_  
  
_“Well, Flynn is obviously wrong!”_  
  
_Cassandra clears her throat. “A few missing cows, nothing life threatening. If we run into trouble we’ll come get you.”_  
  
Which was how Eve was stuck here, in the middle of the night, re-cataloging all the numerous artifacts recovered when the Library’s “spirit” had returned. Her eyes were killing her. She didn’t even know how to pronounce Ozymandius’s dream journal much less find where it was from and where it belonged. Flynn should be doing this, not her.  
  
Flynn. Oh, god. What a mess that had become. Ugh! Stubborn, stubborn man! Why couldn’t he stay put for more than a moment? If he would just listen, just stand still for a second and have a normal conversation! But maybe she was being too rigid. Maybe she needed to find a way to compromise.  
  
But no, she knew she was right. This mad chasing, chance taking, lone wolf shtick he was doing could only go on for so long. He had to stop and make a plan! He had to let others help him, hold him back in his excitement, steady his ever whirring mind.  
  
Or was that Moriarty talking? She couldn’t tell anymore. She wasn’t sure which of these thoughts in her mind were hers to begin with and which were influenced by his words. How insidious they were, just as he had probably planned. What she would give to never have had that conversatio-  
  
“Hello, Duchess.”  
  
Her hand is under her waistband and pulling forth her gun before the final syllable has slipped from his lips. In one fluid motion she slips off the chair and whips around to face the intruder, looking down the barrel at Moriarty’s self satisfied smirk.  
  
“Speak of the devil and he shall appear,” she mutters, lowering the gun, but very pointedly not re-holstering it. Instead, she sets it on the table in easy reaching distance.  
  
“Thinking about me, Duchess? Only good things, I hope.”  
  
“Yeah, like what’s the highest cliff in the world and how do I lure you over it?”  
  
“Oh, come now. Surely it must have been more than that. You’ve been checking up on me.” He walks to the table and reaches past the gun towards a book buried beneath a pile of papers.  
  
She lurches forward, attempting to grab it from his hands, but he’s already thumbed open to the place she had marked.  
  
“His soft, precise fashion of speech leaves a conviction of sincerity which a mere bully could not produce,” he reads from her dogeared copy of Sherlock Holmes. “A bully, am I, Duchess?”  
  
She rips the book from his hands. “You’re something. A homewrecker, maybe.”  
  
He tut tuts. “Trouble in paradise? I hate to gum up the works.”  
  
“Oh, please,” she scoffs. “Why are you here, Moriarty?”  
  
“A very simple reason. I need your help.”  
  
“And why in the world would I help you?”  
  
“Because I shall return the favor at the finale of this drama, when I betray Prospero.”  
  
“I thought you would have already done that.” She levels him with a tight lipped smile and a displeased glare. “You did get the staff, after all.”  
  
“Ah, yes,” he grins, “still a bit of a sore subject I imagine. Playing right into my hands.”  
  
“Well, apparently it didn’t work out for you either, or else you wouldn’t be here begging for my help.”  
  
His face stiffens minutely. “Yes, there were some… complications.”  
  
“Sure,” she says skeptically, crossing her arms across her chest. “You know, I’m starting to believe you have no intentions to “free” yourself from Prospero at all. This is just another one of your games to get what you want.”  
  
“What I want is to be out from under that maniac’s hand.” His voice raises for the first time since she met him. “Do you honestly believe he can keep his hold on me? That I’d let him?!”  
  
“Alright, calm down there, sparky.” She raises her hand placatingly. “Tell me about these “complications.”  
  
“Unfortunately, much like Prospero needed to gain artifacts of significance to free himself from his story, I need some to free me from mine. My story is my leash, my being fictional is what allows him to control me.”  
  
“Hold on a minute, please don’t tell me you’re saying you want my help to essentially make yourself as powerful as Prospero. With no story to hem you in, and all that knowledge from the staff…” She huffs disbelievingly. “Just how stupid do you think I am?”  
  
“I would never presume to accuse you of any such thing, Duchess. And while you do make valid points, ask yourself,” he steps closer, his voice taking on that soft, precise fashion, “am I truly a worse option than Prospero? I have already told you my criminal empire rose out of necessity, but now, in this world, opportunity abounds. There would be minimal need for criminal activity.”  
  
“Minimal need?”  
  
He shrugs. “I cannot promise to completely behave myself. Where would be the fun in that?”  
  
She smiles patronizingly. “Well, at least you’re honest about being dishonest.”  
  
“Have I convinced you then? Shall you assist me on my little adventure?”  
  
She glares, jaw working slightly. But as all the times before, she sighs and gives in.  
  
“Alright,” she concedes. “Where exactly are we going?”  
  
“To London, my dear. To where it all began.”  
  
**EXT. LONDON - 12:30 PM**  
  
“A telephone booth?” Baird exclaims disbelievingly, hurrying to push out of the tiny box and onto the sidewalk. She whirls to face him, hands poised on her hips. “Really?”  
  
He doesn’t reply, patting himself down with a self satisfied expression on his face. “Fascinating. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to use the portal.”  
  
“Why?” Her tone is acerbic. “Because you’re not real?”  
  
He sighs, shutting the glass door behind him. “I do wish you would stop saying that. I am real in my own way.”  
  
He gestures for her to follow and they start moving with the flow of people down the path, towards a rather striking building in the distance. “No, I was worried that since I myself have been brought forth by magic, and the door is a portal made by sympathetic magic, the two types might interfere. Wouldn’t want to lose a leg or a hand somewhere along the way.”  
  
“No, we wouldn’t want that _at all_.” Baird quips, carefully alert and walking a few paces behind him.  
  
“Really, Duchess, you could be nicer to me. What have I ever done to incur your malice?”  
  
“Skip the sweet talking, _Villain_ ,” she replies pointedly. “Where are we?”  
  
“Don’t you know? Trafalgar square.”  
  
Baird has to suck in a breath of excitement. Even after all the places she’s been with Flynn, she knows there will always be some names that inspire an instantaneous wonderment, and this is one of them.  
  
She hastens her pace a little, eager now to see what’s ahead. “I’ve actually always meant to visit here, but I never got the chance. If I’d have known we were coming, I would have done a little research before hand.”  
  
He halts at the crosswalk, turning to smile at her. “By all means, do enjoy yourself, but perhaps save the tourist bits for another day.”  
  
“And what exactly does that mean?”  
  
He hits the button on the pedestrian crossing light and gives her what is becoming an all too familiar smirk. “You’ll see.”  
  
“Why do I not like the sound of that,” she mutters, hurrying across the busy road after him.  
  
As they approach the main square, her attention is immediately arrested by the towering monument before them, an imposing pillar of stone rising into the sky, crowned by a statue of a proud naval officer posing in regimentals with his sword.  
  
He smiles at her amazed expression. “Marvelous place isn’t it?”  
  
“Yes. Yes, it is. Who’s the monument to?”  
  
“Ah, you mean Nelson’s column. A dedication to Horatio Nelson, 1st Viscount Nelson, 1st Duke of Bronté.”  
  
“Well, that’s quite a mouthful. I can see why they just call it ‘Nelson’s Column’. And these four other gentlemen?” She gestures to a smaller statue to their right, one of four sitting at each outer corner.  
  
“The plinths built for the bronze statues. General Sir Charles James Napier, Major General Sir Henry Havelock, and King George IV. And I’m not familiar with the fourth one…”  
  
“I imagine a lot has changed since your time.”  
  
“Not as much as you would think,” he says, taking a sweeping look around. “A more modern feel, yes, some new amenities, but overall, still the same old square I used to run through as a boy.”  
  
She stares at him, expression inscrutable, biting under her lip.  
  
He raises a questioning brow. “Yes?”  
  
“It’s just strange to think of you… being a child, having memories…remembering this place, its history, being here and yet not being here a hundred years ago.” She shakes her head. “It makes my brain hurt.”  
  
“Trust me, I don’t find it any less disconcerting. To exist as a full person in my own world, and then to be forcefully dragged into yours and told that I’m nothing but a character in a storybook. That the only part of my life that anyone bothered to record was the end of it…” He trails off, looking strangely lost and misplaced.  
  
He refocuses after a moment, stiffly clearing his throat. “Anyway, it’s very discombobulating.”  
  
She twists her lip under further. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”  
  
“As I’ve said before, I may not be “real” in a conventional sense, but as Descartes so wisely said: “Cogito ergo sum, I think, therefore I am,” he quotes, moving towards the steps of the building she saw before. “I exist, therefore I feel. Therefore I remember.”  
  
“Alright, you don’t have to get all philosophical on me,” she grumbles, ascending the steps after him.  
  
Red banners hanging from the roof adamantly declare that they are entering The National Gallery. It’s a rather severe building, somewhat regal with its weather worn pillars and Parthenon like appearance.  
  
“Why are we at a portrait gallery?” she asks skeptically.  
  
“To recover something that belongs to me.”  
  
She nearly stumbles over the next step. “Recover something? Oh, no.” Dashing past him, she puts out an impeding hand. “We are not going to steal a painting!” she hisses.  
  
“As I said, Duchess, we’re recovering it,” he cajoles, gracefully maneuvering around her. “It won’t be stealing if it belongs to me.”  
  
“It belonged to you in a book! Am I the only one remembering the conversation we just had?”  
  
“Well, it’s rather too late to back out now. The clock is already ticking.”  
  
“The clock? What clock? I cannot believe I let you talk me into this!”  
  
He looks around them, hoping no one has noticed their rather loud conversation. “Do try not to cause a scene, the less attention we attract the better.” Catching the look of pure fury directed at him, he attempts reassurance. “Honestly, there’s no risk to you at all, and very little you must do.”  
  
“Do I get let in on this little plan?” her voice rises with the question.  
  
“I already have a man on the inside that will take care of the security system, a friend disguised as a janitor who will take the painting out of the gallery and down to the lower level, and an exit route planned. You need to but distract the man at the front desk for a few moments, then make your way to the cafe down the hall. There will be several guards you’ll have to incapacitate, I leave how up to your discretion.”  
  
“Why not get another of your criminal friends to do my job?”  
  
“There’s very few people I truly trust. You’re too honorable to cross me.”  
  
“Don’t be so sure about that,” she mumbles.  
  
“And, of course, I always enjoy your company.” Opening the door for her, he bows gallantly.  
  
As soon as he rights himself, she pulls him inside by his lapels. “Moriarty,” she whispers testily, “is this your idea of a date?”  
  
His eyes gleam. “You said it, not I.”  
  
She fights down the urge to fling him back out the door. “I told you, I’m seeing someone.”  
  
His warm hands slip around her wrists as he gently pries her grip from his jacket. “You said you were, and I quote, ‘Kind of seeing someone.’”  
  
They stand locked that way for a long moment, his thumb rotating back behind her hand in order to slip his fingers under her palm. Her eyes follow every movement, hypnotized by his slow, circling motions. His thumb trails over her knuckles, the pads of his fingers brushing lightly over her hand’s center before he lowers them slowly down.  
  
The momentary spell is broken and she jerks back. Anger flames inside of her, a roaring fire to bury the burning embers of shame.  
  
“Well, thanks to you “kind of” may be a stretch,” she snaps.  
  
“Now, now, Duchess. Don’t go blaming your squabbles on me. The seed of discontent bloomed between you two long before I arrived on the scene.”  
  
She begins her ready retort, but is interrupted by a loud blaring noise. The alarm. How? They hadn’t even tried to steal anything yet.  
  
“Listen carefully,” he murmurs, leaning in and bowing his head next to her ear, “the alarm that just went off is in the section across from room 33, where my painting is, and will draw most of the security away from me. They will shut down the upper wing and instruct everyone to leave. I can maneuver my way through without being found, dissipating is very handy for that, but you must stay in by insisting to the desk clerk that you’ve lost your child somewhere in the confusion. That will keep him from looking at his monitors and seeing me. As soon as everyone is cleared out, knock him unconscious, and make your way to the cafe, where you’ll take out those security guards. I don’t know whether or not I’ll be followed, it’s nearly impossible to teleport with something of this size, so I won’t have that advantage. Do you understand?”  
  
“Yes, sir,” is out of her mouth before she can stop it. She winces in embarrassment. “Sorry, habit. Yes, I’ve got it.”  
  
His smile’s devious glee is nearly contagious. “Smashing. See you soon.” He dissipates into smoke, the gleam of his eyes winking at her from the black before he completely vanishes.  
  
Eve grumbles discontentedly, “Of course I have to be the frantic mother. ‘Cause what other role can a woman play?” Taking a deep breath, she approaches the harried looking man at the desk, weaving her way through the crowd of people hurrying outside the building.  
  
She plasters the most despairing look possible on her face, and begins dramatically sobbing.  
  
**INT. ROOM 33 - 12:50 PM**  
  
Everything is going according to plan. The painting is a relatively simple thing to remove, it only being encased in a light frame. No guards have come upon him as of yet, so he assumes Eve has succeeded in her drama.  
  
Eve. What a befitting name. How appropriate to share the nomenclature of the woman who was supposedly the mother of them all, the giver of life. And this Eve, ever the protector of life. He smiles to himself. How ironic to be so aptly named after the first woman, the most important woman in history, and now quickly becoming the most important woman to him.  
  
It concerns him somewhat, how quickly he had been intrigued by her, how increasingly fascinated he has become. He’s been telling himself that his little attempts to unsettle her relationship with Flynn are as much to have the upper hand as to seduce her, but the truth is, he’s losing control. Every time they talk, he grows closer to speaking plain truths to her. The conversation in the car had come dangerously close to an honest outpouring of himself, rather than the manipulation it was meant to be. The point was made, and had obviously hit home, but still…  
  
Even this little excursion is purely self indulgent. He had just wanted to see her again. That bit about “there’s very few people I truly trust” was absolutely true. But it is also true that he could have paid anyone to do what she’s doing, just as he paid the fake janitor, and the security hacker.  
  
But he is so drawn to her! Her strength of will, her stubbornness, her practical intelligence, they all pull him in. He wants to know everything about her, unlock her background, her secrets, her desires. He could, of course, deduce most of these things, but to have her reveal them, to gain her trust enough to deserve the hearing of them, that is his ultimate goal. And when it had become so important to him to get close to another human being, he does not know. But the truth is that it has become so, and there is no logical point in denying it. He will unlock the mystery that is Eve Baird, no matter how long it takes.  
  
“Hey, you there!” comes a wavering voice from the archway behind him. “Stop what you’re doing! I’ll shoot!”  
  
He sighs and raises his hands slowly above his head. Marvelous. Just marvelous.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to exspecialagentstarling for her help on the editing, and for being an excellent motivator!

**INT. OUTSIDE THE CAFE - 1:00 PM**

Baird paces the hall in front of the cafe, absentmindedly stepping over a downed guard in her path. Where the hell is he? 

She hears him before she sees him, thudding footfalls echoing through the empty halls. He careens into view, painting tucked under one arm, umbrella swinging choppily under the other. 

“Behind,” he wheezes, “me.” Not slowing his pace he rushes past her, reaching into his coat to draw out a small tool kit.

She spins to face the two guards rounding the corner behind him. “Shit,” she curses. “You should have told me you were bringing friends.” Sliding into a defensive stance, her mouth twitches up in a slight grin. “I pride myself on my welcome committee skills.”

The first guard approaches, reaching for his gun. Baird goes low, not giving him the chance to aim, and slams into him with a perfect football tackle. As they fall, she draws her hands from beneath him before they hit the floor. In the breadth of an inhale she pushes up onto her hands and rolls to the side. 

“Freeze!” the second guard barks, her gun drawn and pointed towards Baird’s head.

A hurtling projectile slams into the guard’s own head, knocking Baird out of the gun’s sights. The guard’s eyes cross, and she falls forward face first into the floor. 

Picking the object from the ground, she gapes incredulously at Moriarty, “Did you seriously just throw your umbrella at her?”

“Simple mathematics to calculate, distance, rate, and time,” he says, turning back to his lock picking. 

“Jesus, are you okay?” Baird balks, noticing the numerous bullet holes peppering his suit.

“Fine. The guard was a little unnerved by the whole ‘not able to die’ trick, and grew frantically trigger happy. Rather inconvenient, I liked this suit.” 

“Are you sure?” She eyes the black liquid staining his shirtfront. “I know you’re all invulnerable and such, but… the bullets?”

“You _wound_ me, Duchess,” he winks. “It is a mere scratch.” 

She blinks at him slowly. “Was that a fucking pun? God, I’m going to finish the job.” 

He shrugs, swinging the cafe door wide. “I thought it was quite humorous.” He bows once more. “After you.”

She steps inside cautiously, looking around the deserted dining area. “How did you know no one was in here?” 

“They close at eleven on Saturdays,” he replies, striding across the room and whipping a tablecloth off the nearest table. He carefully drapes it over the painting. “All of the servers have finished cleaning up by one. I’ve been surveying the place for days.” 

“You’ve got everything figured out, huh?” She walks over to the exit door, peering through the tinted glass out into the busy street. 

He comes to stand next her, observing the roadway. He gives a momentary start. “Damn,” he curses. “Apparently not everything.” 

“Evil genius super villain say what?” she snarks. “What do you mean, “not everything”?”

“I mean the bus that was supposed to cover our walk from here back to the telephone booth isn’t at its stop. It’s late.”

Eve raises her eyes to the heavens, sucking in a long, exaggerated breath through her nose. “Please tell me you have a contingency plan.”

“What kind of ‘evil genius super villain’ do you take me for? Of course I have a contingency plan. I have about twenty. I just didn’t want to use this one.” He pulls a small remote device out of his suit jacket, flipping a switch with his thumb, and setting of a faint, continuous beeping noise.

Eve’s eyes widen and her nostrils flare. “Moriarty that had better damn well be anything but a remote controlled dentonato-“

The explosions begin before she can finish. 

In the breadth between the first explosion and the second, the umbrella falls from her grasp and clatters to the floor, her hands coming up around his throat, his head glancing off the doorframe as she slams him into the wall. 

“Tell me,” she hisses, ever tightening her grip, “tell me, that no one was hurt. Tell me your little bombs were somewhere that no possible man, woman, child, cat, or bird could be injured by them. Tell me you did not just make me an accomplice TO A BOMBING!”

He chokes slightly, larynx constricted by the strength of her grip. “I didn’t, _caff caff_ , injure… anyone.” 

She continues pressing viciously, fury burning in her eyes, his steady, self assured look wavering in his own. “Are you sure?” 

It’s not a question. It’s not a statement. It’s a “you damn well better be sure or else we’re really gonna find out if you can’t die today”. 

“I’m… _wheeze_ , sure,” he chokes again, eyes watering. 

Let go with excessive force, he flies back, spine jarring against the door. 

She stalks away from him and begins to pace, as if being too close would enrage her all over again.

She laughs suddenly, a small and constricted thing. “The fucking irony. Do you know that’s what I used to do? Find and lock up people who set off bombs. Locked up terrorists!” She stops her guilty striding, spinning to spit out the words at him, “You’re a terrorist, and you just made me one!” 

He clears his throat, rubbing the now bruised and tender skin. “Eve, I don’t have time to explain. We need to go, now. While the distraction is still fresh.”

She sits down heavily in one of the booths, letting out a shuddering breath. “God, I wish I could shoot you.”

He exhales, nervously running a thumb over his eyebrow. He walks to the table, resting the umbrella and the painting atop it and sliding into the opposite seat. 

“It’s not a bomb,” he halts her protest with a wave of his hand, amending his statement, “not a real bomb, anyway. The sounds were mostly effects, and the shaking was pressurized air. The only harm that bomb could do is kill a few pigeons from over consumption of brightly colored confetti. It will probably be written off as a prank or a publicity stunt.”

She laughs shortly with relief, bringing her hand to her mouth in embarrassment. 

He reaches over and covers her other hand with his own, gazing at her with sincerity. “I’m not the monster you seem to think I am, Eve.”

Her hand twitches beneath his, but she doesn’t move it. “Maybe I’ve misjudged you. Maybe.”

“I don’t claim to be an angel by any means, but I don’t kill indiscriminately. Bribery and gentle persuasion is just as an effective means to an end.”

She yanks her hand back, giving him a narrow eyed glare. “And he’s back, ladies and gentlemen.”

He bends his head in mocking acceptance. “Shall we go?”

“Where? We can’t make it to the booth without being seen.”

“There’s a church across the road, the crypts beneath it have several easily accessible entrances and exits. I shall wait there with the painting while you utilize the pavilion lift and go to recalibrate the portal.”

“A church, huh?” A teasing grin creeps onto her face. “Won’t you burst into flames?”

His eyebrow dips acutely. “Very amusing, Duchess.” 

**INT. St Martin in the Fields Church - 1:20 p.m.**

Eve had felt sure that someone was going to notice them as they hurried across the bustling street towards the church. I mean for God’s sake, how much more obvious could a giant white table cloth be? 

But they had made it inside without incident, lucky as hell that no one was about as they entered. 

“Guess everyone’s still finishing up lunc—“ she begins, but Moriarty brings a warning finger to his lips. 

He swiftly slips the umbrella end around her wrist, pulling her through a door into a small vestibule. Just in time, for seconds later, the soft thud of footsteps can be heard walking past their hiding spot. 

They push in closer to the wall, a hairsbreadth from each other. As they stand in the semi darkness, she can’t help the warm feeling that ignites at their contact, nor stop her eyes fluttering to his lips— “Oh, god,” she hisses. “Do you ever stop smirking?” 

He leans in a little closer, eyes alight with devilish intent. “You could easily stop me if you wished, Duchess.”

“Jesus Christ.” Dramatic flailing ensues, and as she stumbles back into the open, she realizes the person is no longer in sight. She turns around slowly, shooting him an accusatory glare. “How long have they been gone, _Villain?”_

He shrugs, smirk still implacably placed on his face. “The lift is in here, _Duchess.”_

“I hate you, you know that?” she comments, stalking past him. “Absolutely hate you.” 

“People often say that hate is the opposite of love, but that’s entirely untrue,” he counters, opening the glass door for the tiny lift. 

She steps in, going to the opposite side, and crosses her arms defensively across her chest, placing heel over heel and leaning back. “Alright, I’ll bite. What is?”

He turns to face her, setting his umbrella against the wall, and mimicking her position exactly. “The opposite of love isn’t hate. It is indifference. Love and hate are very passionate emotions, closer than anyone likes to believe.” 

He uncrosses one arm to push the lift button, giving her a momentary respite from his knowing gaze. 

She swallows as the doors slide shut, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. When she looks back up, he’s stepped closer. 

The lift starts, and she tries to blame that for the drop of her stomach, not the look in his eyes. 

“Psychologists say,” he murmurs, taking another half step forward, “that when a woman cups her hand, palm out, and tucks her hair behind her ear, she is signaling interest.”

She drops her hand quickly, and licks her lips. 

_Licking the lips, a sign of nervousness, done to release inner tension by stimulating the nerves._

He meets her open gaze, and for the first time she lets her eyes wander over him. Taking him in, trailing down slowly, mouth parted. She won’t lie to herself, she likes what she sees. The man fills out a suit like no other. She bites her bottom lip, eyes fluttering back up to meet his. 

_Biting the lower lip with a steady gaze, a sign of attraction._

He doesn’t need to examine her to determine his attraction, his thudding heart and raised temperature in her presence had already informed him of such. But he allows himself the luxury of returning the favor. 

She fidgets with the buttons on her coat, gaze dropping from his scrutiny.

 _Fidgeting with personal items, a self-soothing gesture that releases nervous tension._

The pulleys of the elevator screech quietly, and she steps off from the wall. No longer nervous, battle in her eyes.

Her coat brushes his, her head tilted down as she enters his space, blonde hair shining in the low light above. He breathes in through his nose, catching the scent of her shampoo— _macadamia and honey._

His hands come up, cupping her shoulders, warmth seeping through his palms. She relaxes into it, tilting back her neck. 

_Exposing the neck, displaying trust and willingness._

He angles his head downward, stubble rubbing gently over the exposed skin, trailing his lips upwards, almost touching but never quite.

He stops at the shell of her ear, mouthing silent words of affection, afraid to speak, afraid to break this spell. His hands drag lightly over soft material, down the length of her arms, brushing fingers, intertwining tightly. 

She pulls on their interlocked hands to bring him to her, tucking her face against his neck, wisps of her hair tickling under his jaw.

He whispers her name as softly as he can, tilting up her chin, meeting bright blue eyes. 

_Cerulean blue — stained glass windows with sun shining through on a Sunday morning, the bright feathered plume from his mother’s hat, chinaware on picnic blankets on the church grounds._

He is awash with a numinous feeling, her eyes inspiring reverence he hasn’t felt for years. 

Her hands twist deep in his jacket, pulling him ever closer. He lets her lead, sliding hands round her face, thumbs brushing cheekbones, waiting. 

Fingers now pulling at his shirt, tongue pressed against her teeth, feverish heat spreading out through their backs. His heart is the staccato bow stroke of a violin, a _crescendo_ building inside. 

He softly presses fingers against her neck, finding her stuttering pulse, thrumming _accelerato_ notes on repeat. 

They lean in, eyes never wavering, begging for lids to flutter shut, begging for trust. 

She blinks, twice, thrice, eyes slowly sliding closed, and he lets his own slip down. 

Their noses bump, the slightest exhale of surprise, a shared startled laugh.

Her breath curls against his right cheek, warm and humid. He chases the gust, smiling as their faces brush. 

She mouths over his jaw, a steady line to her desired destination. He has to suppress a shudder as her teeth lightly scratch his chin. Her exhale ghosts over his lips, the inhale cools them as the heat leaves with her breath. 

The merest brush of their mouths sends want spiraling down his spine, every line of her lips felt in the softest of touches, the faintest taste of her tantalizing him.

He brings his head down, searching for deeper contact.

The mournful whine of the elevator signals its stop, cementing the end of their ride with a shuddering stop. 

His eyes fly open as she pulls from his grasp, fear in her eyes, reality as jarring as their sudden halt. 

He starts to say her name, hand outstretched to impede her, but he’s frozen by the guilt and loathing in her eyes. For him, or for herself, he does not know, but he knows he must let her go.

She exits, not even looking back, heel clicks fading to _a niente_ — to nothing.

**EXT. PAVILION LIFT — STREET NEXT TO CHURCH — 1:30 p.m.**

She can’t help but feel that everyone who passes her in the street can see the red shame emblazoned on her face. She walks faster, head bent down, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.

What was that? Had she completely lost her mind? If Flynn ever found out…

She shakes her head instinctively, trying to rid the thought from her head.

Heaven forbid he ever did. 

She steps down from the curb, walking round the back of the church. Her hand flies to her mouth, eyes going wide. Oh god, a church. She had kissed him in a church! 

She resists the urge to smack herself on the forehead. Of all the places… but— had it really been such a bad thing? There was nothing between her and Flynn right now, they weren’t even “kind of” together anymore. Did that still make it a betrayal? 

She comes to the phone booth, slamming the door open in frustration. Of course it did! Damn the semantics, if there was ever anything between her and Flynn again, he would see it as such! 

She groans, activating the portal and pinching the bridge of her nose. She can feel a headache coming on.

Why had she even helped the damned son of a bitch? She didn’t owe him anything. And she had ample doubt he would really help them in the end. He would help himself, and if their agendas happened to coincide, then happy day. If not… 

She steps through the portal and into the Library, immediately going to change the settings on the device. 

When the sequence is complete, she goes to activate it, but her hand hovers over the lever, indecisive. 

Why even go back? She could just leave him there, the cops would probably catch him, and if he did somehow manage to escape, it would be a clear message to him from her, that she wasn’t interested. That she didn’t care about him. That he didn’t get under her skin and intrigue the hell out of her. That she wouldn’t care if he lived or died. 

_“There’s very few people I truly trust. You’re too honorable to cross me.”_

She throws her head back in frustration, biting viciously on her bottom lip and letting out an angry huff. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. She does give a damn. And that’s the whole problem. 

She pulls the lever.

/

Moriarty is waiting at a lower, concealed wheelchair access entrance, leaning casually against the stone wall of the crypt, spinning his umbrella.

He grins devilishly as Eve pokes her head out of the portal and glares at him. “Get in, before I make you.”

“I was getting concerned, Duchess. I thought you might have decided to leave me behind.”

How does he always know what she’s thinking? It’s infuriating. “Just— just get inside.” She pulls him in by his arm, slamming the double doors shut behind him. He begins to speak, eyes alight with mischief, but she hold up a warning hand.

“Not. A. Word,” she says, punctuating each syllable with emphasis. “No speaking, no smirking, and no flirting. Just stash your precious painting and then reset the door for our next destination.”

“I suppose this means we’re not talking about _it.”_

“As far as you’re concerned, there _is_ not an it, there _was_ not an it, and there’s never gonna be another _it_. So no, we aren’t talking about it.”

He shrugs with concession. “Very well, Duchess.” 

The smirk that follows those words discounts them, and Eve is quite sure that it would be brought up again in the future, and knowing Moriarty, it would be at the worst time possible.

She sighs, resisting the urge, for the twentieth time today, to shoot him. “Show me this masterful artwork we just risked life and limb for.”

“I admit it’s not a very exceptional painting,” he says, carefully uncovering it and propping it on the whiteboard. “But it holds sentimental value.”

He’s right. It’s not an exceptional painting. A round faced girl holds a chubby lamb in her arms, if it can even be called a lamb. It looks more like a sad, cotton covered dog. The colors are muted and dull, and there is obvious alteration to the first layer of paint, denoting an unfinished feel. 

“I think many people would assume that the _“Girl with the Lamb”_ painting that I procured for myself would have been the more refined piece.” He smiles, stepping back to fondly examine the girl’s familiar face. “But, I think, in the freedom and haste of this not so perfect depiction, something was captured in the expression and in the eyes, that wasn’t captured in its polished cousin. In the counterpart, the girl is just a painting, but in this one— the painting is a girl.”

Eve can’t help but feel there’s something more to this painting than she’s being told. His face is softer than she’s ever seen it. A sad but affectionate expression gracing his features, crinkling the lines around his eyes. He looks…young. The James of the past, perhaps a kinder, gentler boy, looking out through Moriarty’s eyes. 

As he continues his description, his voice is fond, his hands animated with depiction. “Her eyes are alive, her cheeks ruddy, her clothes and hair tousled from play. And she has the smallest quirk in her lips, she knows a secret everyone else is unaware of. She knows how to hide it, from years of being told that young ladies don’t smirk slyly like boys, young ladies are proper, pristine, and demure, but still it peeks through. Perhaps there’s a frog inside the painter’s pocket. Perhaps the maid is about to find a mouse in the fire grate. Perhaps she knows that the alley cats will soon follow the hidden trail of catnip, from the foyer to her room.”

She comes to stand beside him, looking intently for all the things he’s illustrated. “Those all sound like very specific stories. Does she remind you of someone?”

He turns slowly from the painting to face her, appearing to have forgotten that he is not alone. “As usual Duchess, you are ever the detective. They are specific stories. Of my mother.”

Her brows raise in curiosity. “Your mother?”

“Yes,” he counters, lifting his eyebrows in mimicry. “I had a mother, just like anyone else.”

She laughs. “I just, I never read about her, she was never mentioned in your story.”

“Well, you didn’t read much of anything in my story. Doyle thought so little of me, he wasn’t even sure of my first name. But I had a mother. Maybe she was never written— but I remember her,” he traces the shape of the girl’s face lightly, “and a childhood, and a home. Perhaps it was not real, but it was real to me. It _is_ real to me.”

She’s not sure what she should say to that, what she could say. “Why does she remind you of your mother?”

“I think my mother was always a very mischievous type of person, much like the girl in the painting. And like the girl in the painting, she hid it well. Women were not permitted to be as free as you are today, in this world. But she told me stories about her pranks, her adventures, her plans. She knew she could trust me with her schemes,” bitterness enters his tone, his mouth turning down, “unlike my father.”

He pauses, a heaviness settling over his brow, the joyful youth fleeing his eyes. “She probably wouldn’t have died,” he nearly whispers, “if she had lived in your world. Your medicine is so advanced that at times it is almost incomprehensible to me.”

Eve’s lips part in sympathy, her hand coming up to rest comfortingly on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, James.”

“I thank you,” he says earnestly, giving her hand a light squeeze. “But it was a long time ago, when I was yet a teenager. Consumption—“ 

He shakes his head, correcting himself. “Tuberculosis, was what took her life. Very common back then, and there was no cure. We didn’t know what caused it, how it was passed, we didn’t understand germs and pathogens the way you do now…But in your world, in this time, she could have been saved. Reading about it, it seemed so simple. What I could have done, how I could have helped.”

“There’s no way you could have known—“

“Why not?! What’s the use of this mind if I couldn’t—“ He halts, his jaw tightening. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

Sensing his anger and grief, Eve tries to steer the conversation to a less dismal topic. “I remember reading that you had a brother. What was he like?”

“I had two brothers actually. Like you, they were both military. Colonel James Moriarty, my elder brother, and my younger brother, who was a station master. Not a train conductor as many modern people would assume, but a master at arms. We weren’t very close. I was a bit of an outcast among the men of our family.”

It’s hard to imagine that charming, suave, and debonair Moriarty would be an outcast anywhere, much less in his own family. “Why is that?”

He deliberately avoids her gaze, pulling his watch out of his waist coat, flipping it open and frowning at the time displayed there. “Damn, we’ll be late if we don’t hurry.”

“Late to what? And you’re avoiding the question.”

“All in due time, Duchess. All in due time. We’re off to visit an old friend’s house.”

“How can we visit an “old friend”?” No one else from your story is in this world.” She looks up in realization and shifts her gaze to his eyes quickly. “There is no one else? Right?”

“Relax,” he chides, striding to the device and inputting the coordinates. “I said we were going to visit the old friend’s house, not the friend themselves.”

She groans. “What is it with you genius types and being cryptic? Honestly, life would be so much easier for everyone if you’d just be straight with us!”

He inhales slightly, a thoughtful look on his face. “Alright, here’s a clue. You know him well, but you’ve never met him, his house is in London, but he’s never lived there.”

“Oh, great!” she exclaims sarcastically. “Riddles! You’re worse than Flynn!”

He tilts his head forward, giving her a displeased look. “I didn’t think anything could be worse than being compared to a villain, but I was wrong.”

She rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine. I’ll play along. Just hold on, I want to grab my coat.”

She exits the room, mumbling under her breath. “I know him well, but I’ve never met him… obviously someone I’ve read about.” 

She opens the doors to the small walk in closet across the hall. “His house is in London but he doesn’t live there…uh…he’s rich and has several summer homes? He’s a realtor, he owns lots of properties!”

She shakes her head, pulling the coat off its hanger. “No…okay…you know him well, but you’ve never met him, his house is in London, but he’s never lived there… he’s never—“ Her eyes go wide. “He’s never lived there! In this world, he’s never lived there! Which means…oh no.” She drops the hanger, slamming shut the closet doors and quickly shrugging on the jacket. “Which means, Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes museum.” 

She yells to him, slipping into her command tone. “Moriarty, we are not robbing another museum. Moriarty!?” 

She rushes back into the room— and stops. The annex is empty, the portal activated, Moriarty already on the other side.

“AGH!” she cries, throwing her arms into the air. “I am seriously going to shoot him!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you've probably guessed, I've never actually robbed a museum so I have utterly no idea if the robbery plan I've suggested is feasible so... apologies if it seems unrealistic.
> 
> I would like to mention that I wrote the kiss scene to a song called the "Elevator Song" by Keaton Henson. It's such a beautiful, atmospheric piece, I really encourage you to give it a listen.


End file.
